


Tastes Like Destruction

by IWrteFicNotTragedies



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Best Friends, Desperation, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Short, SnowBaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWrteFicNotTragedies/pseuds/IWrteFicNotTragedies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz and Simon are best friends, but lately Baz is distant and Simon is frustrated. (But really Baz is desperate and Simon is flustered and they're both hopeless.)<br/>-<br/>"You're doing it again! You won't even look at me." I turn my head sharply and stare him straight in the eyes just to be contradictory, but it makes his shoulders loose some of their tension and his expression soften, so now I'm wishing that I hadn't. "And you keep calling me 'Snow,' you won't even say my first name."</p><p>Because 'Simon' feels too much like a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tastes Like Destruction

I almost want to hide, to just wait behind the school until he gives up on me and walks home on his own. (That would take a long while, Simon Snow is annoyingly stubborn and fiercely loyal.) I don't though, mostly because I'm waiting by the flagpole for him and I'm about to just leave, to completely avoid him some more, but then he's there. And he's smiling and punching my shoulder lightly and I don't even hear what he’s saying because I'm so busy studying the moles on his face, on his neck.   
  
He doesn't seem concerned by my silence, just tugs lightly on my arm and starts walking. I follow after him like a dog on a leash, like there's a vital part of me connected to him and if I don't go wherever he does, it might snap.   
  
I know he's noticed the change in me because Simon isn't a boy who likes to hear himself talk, but today he's forcing himself to chatter on about anything he can think of. It's so forced and he keeps stumbling over his words, keeps choking on sentences, but even still, he doesn't give up on his one-sided conversation.   
  
And it is mostly one-sided because I can barely manage half-hearted smiles and dull responses. It hurts to look at him, so I look other places. I look at his shoes, count the stripes on them, I turn my head and study the houses across the street. Anything to keep myself from gawking and wishing.   
  
I'm not focused much on anything, so when he steps in front of me with a fierce determination unique only to him, my chest bumps against his and I have to stumble backward. I sputter for a second and finally manage an exasperated, "Snow!" that earns me one of his low growls.   
  
"Baz. . ." he says, and I have to close my eyes for a second because I have to be imagining the emotion behind his voice. "You've been. . . You're so distant lately."   
  
I glare over his shoulder, "I don't know what you're talking about."   
  
"You're doing it again! You won't even look at me." I turn my head sharply and stare him straight in the eyes just to be contradictory, but it makes his shoulders loose some of their tension and his expression soften, so now I'm wishing that I hadn't. "And you keep calling me 'Snow,' you won't even say my first name."   
  
_ Because 'Simon' feels too much like a promise. _   
  
"So?" I want so badly to look away; the longer I stare, the more I want to do something stupid and the less willpower I have.    
  
His jaw tightens and his hands clench into shaking fists, "I just don't get the sudden change. I don't get why you don't talk to me anymore, why you're always sneering, I don't. . . I don't know what I did." His voice is shaking and it  _ hurts _ . "I've been trying to figure it out, I've been. . . But I just can't think of anything, so tell me."   
  
I stare at him wordlessly because I can't think of anything to say that would be enough. Not too much. So he continues, "I'm just asking because I. . ." He tilts his head and his lips thin out into a sharp line. (I want to run my thumb across it, loosen it out.) (Then I want to kiss him.) (Maybe bite him. Right on the side of his neck that he's exposed.)   
  
Simon takes a step forward and flattens his hand against my chest. I'm positive that he can feel my heart stutter beneath his fingertips. "Because I care."    
  
This is dangerous. We're too close. He's so close. (I'm so close. Close to breaking.) (I could just fist my hands in his hair and kiss him numb.) (I could be anything but numb.)   
  
"You're my best friend, Baz. You're-- I. . . I  _ care." _ He says the last word desperately, hitting his fist weakly against my chest like he's barely reining himself in.   
  
I just stare at him, breath quick and unstable and he stares right back, crumbling before my eyes. And then he reaches up and cups my jaw in his hands, pushes his fingers through my hair and I shiver, can feel my eyebrows knitting themselves together. I don't even realize what he's doing until his lips are fierce and sure against my own and his hands are anything but. (My head is anything but, the farthest thing from sure.)   
  
It's over too fast and he's stumbling backward too fast, "We never speak of this again."   
  
I only regain use of my limbs, pull myself out of my shock, because he starts turning and he looks like he's about to bolt. He freezes when I start toward him. He looks afraid. (Probably because I'm sneering again.) (I'm sneering because I can't believe that he thinks I'd let him get away that easy.)

The blue of Simon’s eyes is piercing and shocked (but not vibrant) as I push the straps of his backpack away from his shoulders and he half trips over it as I steer him rearward and then his back is against the wall and his hands are braced firmly against my chest, holding me away from him. 

_ “Baz.” _ His voice is shaking and his eyes are so wide, “I didn’t mean--”

I let my jaw slacken, let my expression flatten out, let my breath seep past my lips in a single defeated gasp, and his fingers twitch before his muscles finally stop straining and he lets me press closer, lets my forehead touch against his. Finally,  _ finally,  _ I can feel my hips digging into the space just above his, can let my shoe slide forward so that he knows that I don’t want there to be anything at all between us.  _ “Simon,”  _ I say, and it means everything I’ve always wanted it to, relives every moment of heartache and desperation and  _ want  _ in one breath.

“Okay.” His fingers flutter, tremble over my cheekbone, “I guess we can talk about it just one more time.”

I barely let him finish before I’m kissing him. He tastes like destruction and it’s gorgeous. 

Something about this feels temporary, like an illusion. It’s too good to be true and so I need to get as much of it as I can while it’s still here.

Snow is just as fierce and desperate as I am and it isn’t so much a kiss as it is a war of wants and not-enough's. I lick his lower lip so he opens his mouth and tugs my hair like a plead. Our tongues meet halfway and I let mine slip over his, let myself taste every part of him that I can reach. 

He leans back in the moment I pull away, so I allow him to press his mouth back against mine and it’s more slow this time, more of an embrace than a conflict. 

“Oh,  _ Simon,”  _ I breathe, because he’s everything, and then I inhale sharply when he snags my bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on it briefly. 

I want to make him squirm, want to feel him loosen and become pliant against me, so I stoop to kiss his neck. It’s like a miracle, him arching against me, tipping his head back and pulling in closer with the hand that’s still tangled in my hair. I lick and suck swirling patterns onto his Adam’s apple and then straighten up to drag my teeth under his ear and whisper to his name, but it isn’t desperation or raging fire that makes him weak. It’s when I finally pause long enough to catch my breath and then lean back in slowly, slowly and nudge my nose against his cheek.

I feel the exact moment when his knees buckle, the second after I kiss his first mole, and then I hold him up against me to finish the job. “Simon, Simon. You’re so alive.”

“I don’t think I ever have been before now.” He says it into the crook of my neck and I believe it because I feel the exact same way.

“I have so many plans for us,” I tell him, and he pulls himself together enough to look me in the eye,  “What kind of plans?”   


I just smirk at him and press another kiss to his lips, “Let me show you.”


End file.
